I, Magus
by Kwizotty
Summary: Ferum Sildene, a Breton mage with a sharp mind and even sharper tongue has found himself in quite a poor state  of affairs following an accident by Skyrim's border. Rated M, just to be safe.


**Author's Note: This is my first multi-chapter project, so I hope I can get at least one chapter per week up. Until then, enjoy, and review if you wish. I'm always open to criticism.**

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><p>The cart jolted, waking the middle-aged Breton, Ferum Sildene. A bitter cold bit deep into his bones, carried along by powerful winds, which blew through the rags that were barely suitable as clothes. The man's salt-and-pepper beard was spread awry over his small chest. Given the circumstances, he had only one thought amid the cold, the bumps of the cart, and the dull knowledge that he was heading for an execution block.<p>

_Damn._

He opened eyes opened blearily, giving himself a splendid view of a lively forest, sheeted in a soft carpet of snow. It would have been a quiet, tranquil place, perfect for a walk, had he not been trussed up with leather thongs and slowly advancing to an untimely death. Dying due to magical experimentation, sure. He wouldn't mind much more than the whole 'being dead' bit, but at least it'd be involved with what he loved. Instead, he was mistaken for a Stormcloak battlemage (Which was quite wrong,) and as such was fated for an execution block.

In actuality, he had only been traveling to the College of Winterhold for an annual search for any new spells, tomes, or magical artifacts he could ascertain. He passed the border without going to an Imperial watchtower to go through the legal channels of entering the province, yes. Mainly becaue, in his heightening age, such slow and trivial processes exhausted him physically to the point that he wouldn't be able to keep going for days. While in his eyes this was a great excuse, it lost a bit of its value when told to brusque Imperial soldiers, who aren't all that interested in the weakness of age. Not that Ferum told them his excuse; he was unconscious the moment he saw the fighting between the two factions currently fighting over Skyrim.

A large Nord, garbed in what Ferum believed to be a Stormcloak uniform (What sort of rebellion wouldn't have matching outfits, he thought,) noticed that he wasn't sleeping anymore.

"Hey, you, finally awake?" The Nord asked, nicely enough. "You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us. And that thief over there." He jerked his head sidelong to a smaller Nord.

The thief in question glared at the Nord, a sneer slinking onto his mousey face. "Damn you Stormcloaks," he spat. "Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy. If it hadn't been for you, I could have stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell!

"You there." The thief looked at Ferum, who promptly frowned. "You and me, we shouldn't be here! It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants!"

"We're all brothers and sisters in bonds now, horse thi-" The larger Nord tried to say, before he was cut off by quite an irritated voice.

"Bah! You stole a horse; I just walked along a road! If you want to play the 'I'm innocent!' card, you should be sure you didn't break any laws in the first place!" Ferum barked, not at all pleased at the fact that he had to spend the rest of his life near a whining thief.

"Shut up back there!" The driver of the cart shouted over his shoulder, feeling that he should a least try and show some authority.

"What's wrong with him, huh?" The thief asked, jerking his head at the fourth passenger in the cart, another Nord, who was gagged with a linen rag.

"Watch your tongue!" That was the Stormcloak soldier. "You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King!" Ferum raised an eyebrow, skeptical of that statement.

"Ulfric?" The thief seemed frightened. "The Jarl of Windhelm? You're the leader of the rebellion! But if they've captured you… Oh gods, where are they taking us?"

"I don't know where we're going." Mumbled the Nord grimly. "But Sovngarde awaits." The thief's eyes widened hysterically.

"No, this can't be happening! This isn't happening!"

"It is. It'd go along better if you just shut your mouth." Ferum muttered, once again unable to accept that he had to die next to a man so cowardly he whined like a child.

The motley group of soon-to-be-corpses went silent, allowing Ferum to think for a moment. He couldn't escape using magic; his hands were tied, and he was sure that someone had cast a strong Silence on him. His vast magicka reserves seemed just out of his reach, almost teasingly. A physical way of escape was out of the question as well. Being a studious fellow, Ferum wasn't skilled with a sword. At most, he could use a dagger if he couldn't cast any more spells.

With a sigh, he looked around his surroundings again. A quick glance at the supposed 'true High King' led him to a new train of thought.

Nords followed a combat heavy set of cultural traditions. Political successions sometimes came through killing the predecessor in single combat, or so Ferum had read. Skyrim was also had an Imperial presence, being one of the few provinces that were still under the weakened grasp of the Empire. To top it all off, the man was gagged, and his surname was the name of the rebellion army he led. Ferum was a bit disappointed in the man's lack of creativity in naming his supposed freedom fighters, but decided not to say anything. Criticism wasn't nice to have to hear when you're about to die, after all.

So, the man was gagged, and considered a traitor in the eyes of the Empire. Ferum focused on the gag. He knew a bit about Nords and their abilitiy to create a Thu'um, a spell-like shout, so he assumed the man could create such a force (hence the gag,). It also, coincidentally, kept him from saying any inspirational martyr speeches.

The shivering mage could have gone on far, far longer, but the large Nord again interrupted his thoughts.

"Hey, what village are you from, horse thief?" He asked, looking to his left. The thief, who the mage noticed was also a Nord (Ferum again noted the abundance of Nords in this caravan. There were probably some racial barriers in the Stormcloaks.) frowned, as if expecting some form of jibe.

"Why do you care?" He asked carefully, each word weighed evenly with fear and sorrow. The larger Nord, in the Stormcloak uniform, smiled slightly.

"A Nord's last thoughts should be of home." How melancholic. Even so, it relaxed the thief, who apparently wanted some sort of promise of not being dead forever. Slowly, he answered.

"Rorikstead. I'm… I'm from Rorikstead."

A ways ahead, a soldier called, "General Tullius, sir! The headsman is waiting!"

"Ah, good." Ferum said cheerfully (in times of stress he became exceedingly sarcastic). "I thought the poor man might have had a cold." He gained a few raised eyebrows from his fellow prisoners.

"Good," An old, rough voice, no doubt this Tullius man's, said. "Let's get this over with."

The horse thief was practically crying now. Frantically, he prayed. "Shor, Mara, Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh! Divines, please help me!"

"Kynareth likes animals, you know. Probably not a fan of people who steal them." Ferum, quite out of patience, snapped.

Their cart rolled past a man in ornate Imperial armor, chatting quietly with a hooded Altmer woman, who had eyes like iced glass shards (Exceedingly sharp, and cold).

The Stormcloak soldier looked over his shoulder, "Look at him, General Tullis, the Military Governor, and it looks like the Thalmor are with him. Damn elves. I bet they had something to do with this." He growled.

"Because, obviously, the Thalmor told Ulfric Raincape over here to walk into an Imperial ambush." Ferum was also prone to bitterness when stressed. He wasn't a very good people person, honestly. The Jarl glared at him, and got a loud raspberry for his trouble.

"This is Helgen…" The Stormcloak soldier went on, musing to himself. "I used to be sweet on a girl from here… I wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in…" He chuckled to himself. "Funny. When I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe."

"Yes, sturdy stone walls and towers manned by trained soldiers do that."

Another glare, from both the larger Nords this time.

A young boy, not much more than a decade old, was watching the carts. "Where are they going, Daddy?" He asked his father.

"You need to go inside, little cub," his father said hurriedly. Ferum sympathized with him. If he had children of his own, he'd prefer to not let them see beheadings, too. It'd be a bad influence.

"Why? I want to watch the soldiers!"

"Inside the house. Now!"

"Yes Papa…" The boy left.

An Imperial officer, dressed in pale grey armor showing her rank, guided the carts with loud, impatient orders. With a furrowed brow, Ferum watched her. Better than seeing more glares coming his way from the now not-so-friendly Nords.

"Why are we stopping?" Cried the horse thief, panicked to the point of being unable to put two and two together. Tears were steaming down his cheeks, and his face was an ugly blotched red. Despite all of the man's whining, Ferum felt a pang of sympathy for him, as well as a balanced feeling of disgust.

"Why do you think?" Replied the larger Nord quietly. "End of the line." He gave Ferum a glance, or another glare. The Breton wasn't sure which. He was still watching the Imperial soldiers mill around the chopping block.

With a sigh, Ferum rose from his seat. His hands, pale and cold from both the wind and lack of circulation, throbbed numbly. He tried again to delve into his magicka, only to be rewarded with a sense of longing and frustration. The horse thief was whining again. Saying that 'the Imperials couldn't do this,' or some such. The mage didn't pay much attention; he was busy trying to get down from the cart.

Hopping down was out of the question; his knees were stiff; the moment he landed they would give out, and a mouthful of dirt wasn't exactly what he wanted to have as his last dinner. He could scoot off the edge on his buttocks, but it wouldn't be dignified. Ferum settled for grasping the side of the cart, climbing down onto first the back step, then to the ground.

A few feet ahead, that same Imperial woman, standing by another Nord soldier (Ferum thought, yet again, of how many Nords there were). They were calling names from a list, and directing prisoners to their place by he chopping block.

"Empire loves their damn lists," growled the Stormcloak beside Ferum. He nodded neutrally.

"Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm," called the Nord by the officer. He scribbled something down on his beloved list.

"It has been an honor, Jarl Ulfric." That was the Nord beside Ferum again. It seemed he didn't notice how his leader had spent the ride with hunched shoulders and a sullen expression, the posture of a defeated man who would not resist whatever his captors did to him.

"Ralof of Riverwood." The soldier scribbled in his list again; the Nord beside Ferum walked over o the rest of the prisoners.

"Lokhir of Rorikstead." Another scribble. The horse thief – Lokhir – stiffened.

"No, I'm not a rebel! You can't do this," he shouted suddenly. The man bolted by the officer and list-keeper, his fear aiding him in his flight. The Imperial woman, for she was a woman, raised an arm.

"Archers!" Ferum cringed; he knew what was going to happen. Surely enough, it did. A soldier, armed with a longbow, deftly drew an arrow, nocked it, took a bead on the fleeing man, and let fly the arrow. It flew into Lokhir's back, knocking him down into the dirt. The archer's aim was true; the horse thief was dead the instant he hit the ground. "Anyone else feel like running?" The officer asked rhetorically, obviously enjoying the whole scenario. Ferum frowned.

"Yes, actually, I do." He said. Met with dumbstruck looks, he continued.

"You asked; I answered. Don't orders work like that? No? Shame." He looked skywards, and heaved an exaggerated sigh. The list-keeper blinked, bemused, then looked back at his list. He looked up again, surprised.

"Wait, you there, step forward." Ferum did so. He didn't fancy the idea of an arrow in the back.

"Who… are you?" This caused the mage's eyebrow to rise. What an insult! To sentence a man to death, but not even bother to ask his name beforehand!

"Who am I? Well!" The Breton was riled. This was the last straw. "If you can't be bothered to learn a man's name before you kill him, well, it's rude!" Ferum was tired and stressed, you understand. Witticisms are difficult to make under such conditions.

"Now, after this poor service," Ferum gave the Imperial officer a quick glance. "I should entitled to one now." As he had expected, he wasn't allowed to finish.

"No," barked the officer, who was fast losing what little patience she had. "Now go to your place in the line, and keep that wagging tongue of yours in your mouth, or I'll cut it out."

"Bit useless to say that to someone who's about to be executed," pointed out the mage.

"Quiet."

With no rebuttals in his head, Ferum complied. He took the few slow strides to his 'spot', stopping when he was aligned with the rest of the prisoners, who, he noticed, were all Stormcloaks. Shocking. A passing thought of sore thumbs came to mind. When he noticed what was happening, a priest was chanting something about Nirn's salt and earth. She was, however, interrupted by a red-haired Nord.

"For the love of Talos, shut up, and let's get this over with," he growled.

"As you wish," the priest replied, affronted. Ferum shifted his weight from each foot, and look up at the sky. He lost focus almost immediately.

He heard the thud of the axe, unfortunately. The mage fell into a daze, and though he felt a soldier push him forwards to the waiting headsman, he felt no emotion. To his left, the female officer, was sneering at him. He didn't care. To his right, the list-keeper stood, near the chopping block. He looked reluctant, almost regretful.

Time began to slow down for Ferum. As he was shoved onto his knees, all his senses seemed to fade. He could barely make out the executioner, lifting his axe high above his head. Then, thud. A deep, echoing thud, that filled the Breton's ears. It was not the axe; it was too deep a noise. A great drumbeat, that's what it sounded like. He craned his head stiffly, staring at the sky.

Thud. Then, there was a roar. A grating, powerful roar, it sounded like an avalanche no, it was a thunderclap, no, an earthquake! It sounded like many things, all of them powerful and terrible. His senses slowly came back, just in time to hear the general, Tullius.

"What in Oblivion is that?"

'That' was a huge and terrible creature. With wings of black sheath, and a terrible, spiked body of black as night, it loosed another, rumbling roar. The sky shifted into a funnel cloud, making the sky look as if it were about to destroy the world with a mighty storm.

With a heavy thud, the creature, the dragon, (For there was nothing else it could look like,) landed on a guard tower. Its red-hot eyes balefully examined the pitiful grouping of humans, radiating hatred and filling each individual man and woman with feelings of utter fear and worthlessness, to name a few.

Ferum felt the dreadful gaze of the dragon. Slowly, he turned his head, still leaning upon the bloodstained chopping block, up at those terrible, burning eyes. His mind was reduced to nothing but fear and despair, but still managed to get one coherent word out. In context, it was quite fitting.

_Damn._

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>** I've just noticed how linear Skyrim's introduction is. It certainly wasn't fun churning out multiple ways to keep changing perspective between the chatting prisoners. Ah well, it'll be easer from here on out.**

**Again, I'm open for reviews, but I'd like to get a review just to show you read this, too. It'd certainly make having to listen to Lokhir whine in a video of the introduction worth it. Also, if anyone would like to be a beta reader, I'd gladly try and figure out how beta readers work; I imagine I've missed a few chances for improvement on this story.**


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